Acceptance
by B.A. Tyler
Summary: The camp dog gets something that has him feeling special, but meanwhile, Charles is feeling down in the dumps. Another installment of Puppy Dog Tales.


**Acceptance****  
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_(Author's Note: Story 3 of Puppy Dog Tales. Follows "Anywhere But Here" and "Yappy Easter.")__  
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* * *

"There you go, Blake," Klinger said, fastening the collar around my neck. "What do you think? Pretty spiffy, huh?"

He had made it from scratch, and yeah, I'm sure it was spiffy, all right. I'm color-blind—as are all dogs—but Klinger had told me that the collar was bright red… and then he had embroidered the name Blake onto it in bright yellow! He said (sounding pretty pleased with himself, I might add) that I was going to practically glow in the dark wearing this thing. I imagine it looks ridiculous. But actually, it's probably a good idea to stand out, since I sure didn't want to get hit by jeeps or ambulances or running people.

I gave a soft "Woof" to show my appreciation. I'd never worn a collar before, but it kind of made me feel good. Like I belonged to these people… which I did. After all, nobody else had ever named me.

"Good, I'm glad you like it. It looks terrific on you!" Klinger smiled, admiring his handiwork. For a tough guy from Toledo, he sure was talented at making clothes and stuff. He made all his own dresses, he'd explained to me at one point. Because, he said, it's not like you can find dresses his size off the rack. This guy took his Section 8 mission seriously. He's a breed apart, that's for sure.

He clapped his hands once. "OK, buddy. Go show off your new collar to the camp! Enjoy!"

"Woof!" I said, to thank him again, and then I ran out of his tent, eager to show off my new accessory.

Major Houlihan saw me prancing along and called out, "Hey, good lookin'!" I veered in her direction to get some pats on the head. "Fancy collar, Blake!" she said with a big smile. "You're a real lady-killer, aren't you?"

I gave an affirmative "Woof!" and a doggie smile, and continued on my way.

Father Mulcahy was outside his tent, planting something (I don't know why he bothers… it doesn't seem like much grows around here). He looked my way as I passed by and gave a whistle. "Well well, Blake! It looks like I'm not the only one in camp who wears a collar anymore!"

That padre, what a card.

Next stop: the Swamp, to visit some of my favorite humans. I nudged open the door with my nose and the first thing I saw was Charles splayed out on his cot willy-nilly, loose-limbed and practically drooling. Darn, he was asleep? I'd been looking forward to showing him my collar. Don't tell anyone, but Charles just might be my favorite person in the whole camp. We understand each other, he and I.

From his cot, Hawkeye said, "Hey, Blake! Good to see you, buddy! Oh wow—" he held a hand up to shield his eyes, as if he were being blinded. "That collar sure is splashy! Look at that, Beej… we'll see Blake comin' from a mile away, with that thing on!"

B.J. laughed. "It's noticeable, all right," he agreed. "It's actually kind of understated, considering Klinger made it."

He and Hawkeye laughed at that, but my focus turned to Charles. I wandered over to his bed, and Hawkeye said, "Ah, better not wake him up, Blake. He got plastered at Rosie's and he's sleeping it off. Trust me, you want to leave him alone for now, OK?"

I looked from Charles to Hawkeye and gave a very soft, almost inaudible "Woof." I understood. These guys got drunk a lot, but usually it was the other two, not Charles, who got so loaded that it led to unconsciousness.

As if he were reading my mind, Hawkeye said softly, "He's in a bad way right now. He lost a patient on the operating table for the first time—he's taking it pretty hard."

Oh that's such a doggone shame! A patient of his died? He must've felt terrible. Charles is a very skilled doctor (he told me so himself), and he probably never dreamed somebody would die on his operating table. Now I could see why he'd gone drinking. Humans sometimes do that to forget about problems they're having. Hawkeye says it deadens the pain, at least for a while.

I looked at Charles again and sighed. OK, I would let him sleep, but that didn't mean I couldn't hang out with him. I curled up on the floor next to his cot, and settled down for a nap of my own.

* * *

"Yip!" I exclaimed as I bolted awake. That's my usual reaction when some human puts a foot on my head.

Charles, whose foot it was, jumped and fell back onto his cot. "Oh!" he said, his voice still sounding sleepy. "Blake! I didn't see you there."

He looked down at me, his eyes red, his hair (not that he has much of it!) all messed up. He looked awful. He cleared his throat and took a slow visual inventory of the tent. I suspect he had cobwebs in his head, from the way he was acting.

Both Hawkeye and B.J. were gone, so it was just the two of us. Charles said, "Sorry I almost stepped on you, my young friend."

And here I'd just gotten this flashy new red-and-yellow collar that was supposed to make people notice me.

"Forgive me for not being more presentable. I had uh, a bit too much to drink last night. It has rendered me somewhat indisposed."

Indisposed? I didn't know that word. Sometimes when Charles uses a big word, he takes the time to explain it to me. But he didn't do that now, with this word.

Instead of trying to get up again, Charles fell backward onto the bed. He did some moaning and groaning. I got it: "indisposed" must be another word for sick as a dog. I felt sorry for him, and I decided he could do with some doggie comfort. I carefully jumped onto his cot and snuggled next to him. I've been told that people feel better when they pet a dog. Trust me when I tell you: the dog likes it, too!

Lying there with his eyes closed, he ran his hand over my fur and mumbled, "Lost a patient, dear ol' Blake. He died, and there was nothing I could do about it. First time I ever failed to save someone on my operating table. First time in all my years of being a surgeon! It's just… it's unfathomable."

How upsetting, to hear him so heartbroken! I gave a little bit of a whimper to let him know I sympathized. I wished I could do more, but sometimes there isn't anything that anyone—human or canine—can do.

There was a knock on the door then, and it startled us both. "What?!" Charles barked in the direction of the door.

"Is it all right if I come in?" It was Klinger.

"No!" Charles said, sounding much more like himself. Grouchy was kind of his normal temperament, at least around most humans. He was rarely grouchy with me.

"Tough!" Klinger said, letting himself in. "I'm coming in anyhow!"

"Klinger! Do you have a death wish? Can't you deduce that I desire to be alone right now?"

"I thought maybe you'd like to talk about your… uh… well, your feelings, assuming you rich folk have feelings like the rest of us. We all know you lost a patient in the OR. We all know you must be feeling lousy right now. Why don't you talk about it, get it off your chest? It'd do a world of good—"

"Thank you, no," Charles interrupted him. "I'm not in need of your pseudo-therapy, Klinger. I'm doing quite all right."

"All right? Is that why you got blotto last night?"

"That had nothing to do with anything," Charles said, sitting up now and glaring at Klinger. "People in this godforsaken place get drunk all the time! I don't see you trying to psychoanalyze Pierce or Hunnicutt!"

"Major—"

"Out, Klinger, out!" Charles pointed at the door. "Believe me, I'm fine. Just leave, would you please?"

Klinger, who knows when to back off when it comes to Charles, did just that, and whirled on his high heels and left. Charles watched him go, then turned his gaze back to me. My expression was trying to say: what's up, buddy?

He sighed and went back to stroking my fur. "You think I should've talked to him?" I rested my head on his leg. "I don't know, Blake. People like me don't… we don't unburden ourselves very easily. We find it difficult to confide in others. I don't suppose you understand."

Not really, but I'd seen it before in my time. Humans are silly like that. They go to such lengths to deceive, pretend, and hide their feelings. Always with the dog and pony show. We canines aren't like that. We wear our emotions on our tails.

Charles scratched me behind my ears, then shooed me off the bed and stood up, apparently finally ready to start his day. Just as he was reaching for his bathrobe and shampoo, Hawkeye and B.J. came in.

"Charles!" Hawkeye said cheerfully. "How nice to see you among the living again!"

He got a grumble in response.

"Feeling OK?" B.J. asked him. B.J. tends toward the sincerity whereas Hawkeye usually goes with the wisecracks. Put them together and they balance each other out nicely.

Charles waved a dismissive hand. "Feeling fine," he said, lying through his teeth again.

"Oh?" Hawkeye challenged him. "Is that why you drank half of Rosie's inventory last night?"

"Pierce, please. I've already turned away a Lebanese lunatic who was trying to get me to, quote, 'talk about my feelings,' unquote, and I'm not above doing it again."

"So you're not at all bothered by the fact that you lost a patient? I suppose we're all way off base thinking that you're upset about it?"

"Precisely."

Grrr! I was so tired of hearing his lies that I felt like muzzling him! I gave a sharp, frustrated "Woof!" that was meant to convey my disappointment in him. I think it might've been louder than I intended, and angrier-sounding. All three of them looked at me in surprise.

"Blake seems to disagree, Charles," B.J. said with a tilt of his head.

"What does he know?" Charles said. "He's just a dog."

Hey! Thanks a lot, baldie! Well OK, I'd forgive him, since we were such good buddies, but I gotta say, that kind of hurt.

Hawkeye took a step toward Charles and put a hand on his arm. Suddenly he wasn't Dr. Sarcasm anymore; suddenly he was compassionate and concerned. "Charles, _this_ Blake may just be a dog. But the _other_ Blake—Henry? He was a good man and a good doctor. Sure, sometimes he was kind of scatterbrained, but every now and then, he said some pretty wise things. You know what he told me once? I had just lost a good friend of mine on the operating table, and I was pretty broken up about it. And Henry said, 'There are two rules about a war. Rule number one is that young men die. And rule number two is that doctors can't change rule number one.'"

Something shifted in Charles's eyes then. It was like the words hit him in a way that none of the other words had. I watched as his shoulders slumped a little, the tension falling away. He closed his eyes, standing there with his bathrobe in one hand and a shampoo bottle in the other, and for a moment, it seemed like everything froze. But then I saw he was crying, the tears running freely down his cheeks, though he wasn't making a sound. Whatever he'd locked up inside him was coming out now, and I was relieved. It was what he needed.

Hawkeye pulled him into an embrace, letting him cry on his shoulder. B.J. went to them and rubbed Charles's back. It was really sweet. A lot of the time, you see these guys antagonizing each other, insulting each other, acting like they don't care. But they care… trust me, I know.

They stayed like that for a few minutes and then the P.A. out in the compound blared, "Attention all personnel! Incoming wounded! Choppers on the way!" As always, that meant they had to get ready for another long OR session. They pulled out of their embrace and Charles wiped at his eyes. Hawkeye gave him a reassuring pat on the back, and B.J. said, "Lean on us anytime, Charles. The only way we'll get through all of this is by sticking together."

"Thank you, gentlemen," Charles said, his voice still shaky. "I'm most grateful."

B.J. smiled. "Hey, no problem, bunky."

Hawkeye turned to look at me. "OK, Blake, hold down the fort for us. We have to go save some lives now."

"Woof!" I said, wagging my tail, feeling pretty pleased with myself. Charles would be fine, I was sure of it… and I had actually played a part in the whole thing. I had helped, in my own small way.

I was as proud as a pup with a new collar—hey!

That's exactly what I was!


End file.
